Planes

“The planes are in the basement”, he says. As I step down, they are all I see. He creaks down the stairs and to the piles of wood aching to be carved by his masterful hands into one of the many types of model planes around the room. He turns on the lights, and I wander down into the room.  The plastic glistens in the light. “So, what do you think of them?” Grandad asks.  

He turns and I see his face, along with the cat that slunk down behind him. He sends the cat back upstairs and walks to the table. He sits down, and as he breathes, the thin layer of dust on the wings floats up and swirls around before disappearing. He starts to work, humming softly under his breath. He stretches the thin layer of plastic over the wood base, while melting the translucent purple plastic onto the wood frame. 

We sit there, silently, for a while, him working and me watching, until he is done.

He gets up, with a screech of his chair sliding, and walks over to the other side of the room. He selects a motor and screws it into place. Then, he syncs the motor to the large, bulky remote controller with over 20 buttons, dials, and switches. He checks the plane one last time, and then we climb back up the stairs, the plane leading with him carrying it, and me following behind. He walks outside the tall house, and I follow him.

In the crisp New Zealand air, we walk down the block, past the house with the big garden we are staying in, down the hill, and into the field. We hear screaming children playing on the playground, one of whom is my sister. 

I hold the remote while grandad carefully sets the plane down. I give him back the remote, and he starts the plane up. The motor hums, and then it is whisked away into the air. 

After a graceful flight, grandad brings the plane down, and together we walk back into the house. Grandad sets the plane back down in the basement, and I walk back out of his house and into my own.

~ Carolyn B.